Friday, 2 August 2013


Tumble water falling souls and various threads of gossamer chants
The monks do and waste their time not thinking of their Tools
Cloistered and hiding away from societal yearning nothing but isolation
Dark clothes and holy crosses the only phallus of dark cruel and cold

The angel is weeping the salt of Lot but has no sins perched on stone
With gargoyle claw and curv’d tusk lying still with the dusk
Eyes closed in the pretense of what’s on the other side
Sodom and Gomorrah paid with the price of God’s pride

It was his creation melded in the form he thought true
And blessed to speak in tongues of purple rage and vehement spit
Cast the archangel from heavenly spires into his own glowing pit
And gave the word of ten to bind them to the rock from which they sprang

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